Stress creates stress
Causing sleepless nights
Internal body fights
And crazy anxiety
And worry
Stress never created
Anything helpful
So please stop
Stress
And just pray
To God
That everything
Will turn out
Alright
And it will

I wrote all this great stuff
But it went in trash
Alas, alas, alas
The critic up here
Echoes strictly
About the past
Alas, alas, alas,
My brain
Charges cheaper rent
For ideas that
Reek of doubt
Slowly evicting
The real artist out
Alas, alas, alas
No
– I will no longer
Appeal to the masses
At some point
Firsts draft become butterflies
It looks like death but not
Because the stuff
In the trash
Wasn’t that bad
Actually a few more passes
And might be fantastic